


Sober is Super

by hatebeat, throwashadow



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Implied D/S relationship, M/M, Rehabklok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatebeat/pseuds/hatebeat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/throwashadow/pseuds/throwashadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The twelve steps of Pickles' recovery examined through a series of letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Rehabklok.

Charles was never outwardly emotional when he was doing his job. The longer he did this job, though, the harder it was to tease it away from anything that he would allow to make him outwardly emotional.

With the recent legal trouble surrounding several hundred deaths and several million dollars in damage to commercial airliners caused directly by one of his clients, he had no choice but to buckle down and try to think of the days when he hadn’t been in a complicated relationship with this particular client.

He wasn’t being emotional, per se, but on this phone call his teeth were gritted hard. All of the victims had pooled to one lawyer, and Charles was bargaining hard to keep the case out of the ruling of the courts. If that happened, it would become less a matter of money and more of keeping Pickles out of jail. Money they had. Judges tended not to take bribes in cases of mass manslaughter.

“My clients have been more than generous with this offer. No matter how much money you offer us, Ofdensen, we can’t back down from this point.” The man’s voice was firm, clean-cut. Calm.

“Of course, of course. I understand the gravity of these cases. And our offers have been just as generous. We will compensate the medical expenses and other associated losses more than twice over. We’ve agreed to cover their legal fees. But I have to stand firm on this point as well. My clients stand to lose more than finances if I let this deal through.” Charles was sweating now.

Rehab. That was the point this lawyer was pushing, and that was hardly better than jail. For a celebrity, it was a major blow to the career. It was tension within the band, time lost from touring and recording and promotions. And for Pickles, it would be torture. Charles realized this, and he was practically ready to drop the settlement and head into the courts. But that was a big gamble, too.

“You know what, Abrams? I’m going to consider this. I’m going to sleep on it, and I’ll get back to you before lunch tomorrow. I trust you’ll put some thought into my offer as well.” Charles needed more time. He felt entirely unprepared to deal with the offer. His boys’ fate was always in his hands. But this choice he was making for Pickles was more than legal or business advising. It was more responsibility over a client -- or a lover -- than he felt was right.

He tapped on the phone’s hook, and dialed another number.

“Judge Alfonso? It’s Charles Ofdensen. Was wondering if you could give me a bit of advice.” He explained the case. Judge Alfonso was off session for the rest of the year; if he was in the circuit, the choice would have been clear, since he would obviously have ruled in their favor.

“Well, Charlie, I’m gonna give it to you straight. If I were ruling, you know what I’d do.” He laughed heartily. “But my colleagues, I’m gonna tell you, they’d probably put him in a rehab center. Three months there, at least. That’s if you’re lucky. I know a few would probably let him rot in jail. It’s a gamble, Charlie. Your call, but just know what I told you.”

“I see. Thank you for your time, your honor. Would, ah, love to see you once this is all sorted through.”

“Hang in there, man. You do great work.” Judge Alfonso hung up.

Charles sighed deeply and wiped the sweat off of his forehead. He seemed to be out of choices. He could only get his boy out of so much. And three months in rehab was far preferable to letting him rot in jail. For him, at least, the image was easier to deal with.

He picked up the phone again.

“Abrams? Yes, it’s Charles Ofdensen. I know I said I’d get back to you tomorrow, but I think I’m going to go ahead and take your offer. Yes. I know. I’ll inform him tomorrow. Mmhmm. Pleasure dealing with you.” He kept his tone even throughout the call, and gently pushed the hook down before slamming the phone over it.


	2. Prologue

**STEP ONE: We admitted we were powerless - that our lives had become unmanageable.**

_Pickles,_

_I received notice that you are finished with the detoxification portion of your treatment and are now able to receive letters. Congratulations on getting through that-- I’ve heard that it can be excruciating._

_This is big for you. This means that physically, you are ready to live without alcohol. Your body has reached a point where it is not dependent on alcohol. You made it._

_I realize that you are not thrilled about being in rehab. But I urge you to understand why it was necessary for me to send you there. You were involved in a dangerous accident. Lives were lost; normally this is expected and excusable. However, three major airliners crashed as a result of your hoverdrums’ malfunction, and none of the people aboard those crafts signed our waivers. We have over a hundred major lawsuits coming in from the victims and their families, and none willing to settle outside of court. That is, unless your behavior is made an example of, and part of that is you completing this rehabilitation program._

_I know that this is not what you want to hear, but you must consider the circumstances of your accident. You were operating machinery under the influence of alcohol. Whether the accident happened directly as a result of you drinking is impossible to discern, and doesn’t make a lick of difference in our case. The decks are stacked against us unless you can just give this a try._

_You don’t have to like it. I don’t expect you to like it. But what I do want is for you to give half a try to this. I have never considered alcohol to be a problem for you because it doesn’t hurt you or the people around you. However, you are addicted. You may benefit from examining your addiction critically and from experiencing sobriety for a brief period._

_It isn’t a long time. You will return to Mordhaus and things will be normal. But for now, look at the 12 Steps. I know that you’re going to be hearing a lot about them in the coming weeks. Step 1 is to admit that you are powerless over your addiction, and your life, as it is, is unmanageable without alcohol._

_Think about it. You versus your need for alcohol. Who wins? Do you not run crying into its arms every time?_

_Best,  
Charles Foster Ofdensen_

\---

It was the seventh day when Pickles was ushered down an unfamiliar hallway, a scowl plastered to his face and feet unwilling. His body was starting to be kinder to him, much kinder than it had been in the past week, but it didn't help anything. He was fucking stressed out, and there was an obvious solution to that: just have a drink. But apparently that wasn’t a fucking option right now.

He was instructed to sit in a chair in front of a desk, and images of sitting the same way in front of Ofdensen suddenly overwhelmed him and threatened to leave a stupid grin on his face. But the guy who came into the room and sat on the other side of the desk wasn't Ofdensen, it was some fucking quack in a white coat.

"So, who the fuck are you?" Pickles challenged as soon as the guy was seated. He'd been on edge, on the defensive with everyone since he'd gotten here, and this guy was no exception. Everyone felt like an enemy.

"Hello, Pickles. I'm Doctor Lawrence Weisman. I'll be conducting your individualized therapy for the duration of your stay with us."

"I don't need none of that shit," Pickles muttered, slouching further in his chair. "I ain't crazy."

"It has nothing to do with being crazy, Pickles. You're here because you have problems that we can help you fix."

"It ain’t a problem!" Pickles interjected, his scowl souring.

"...And there may," the doctor continued, talking over him, "be underlying issues that have lead to your addiction, ones that require special attention-- possibly even medication."

"Dude, the only medication I'm lookin' for right now is booze."

\---

_Ofdensen,_

_Dude why the fuck are you writing this shit to me? Like you're one of those fucking doctors, like you're trying to explain this shit to me. Fuck you, don't be like them. It's worse coming from you because you fucking KNOW me. And dude, you're ADMITTING that you don't think I have a fucking problem!!_

_Do you have any idea what the hell I'm going through in here?! It's like I'm not even a fucking person anymore. I hate this shit, I don't want to be under anyone's fucking control ~~except yours~~. No wait, fuck that, not even yours if you honestly think I got to be in this fucking place._

_You think I fucking care about people dying or fucking lawsuits? I can pay out the ass, you know I got the money to buy my way out of this shit. So you just sent me in here to fuck with me. You can either go fuck yourself or get me the fuck out of here._

_Just fucking come get me out of here. Please dude. I'm fucking dying in here dude. Get me the fuck out of here and get me a fucking drink._

_Pickles_

_PS Fuck you for signing your letter like that, like I'm just one of your fucking clients._


	3. Step 2

**STEP TWO: Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.**

He stabbed at his lunch angrily. He wasn’t angry for any particular reason, just angry at the whole situation. His dumbass shrink dude had set him up with some Zoloft the other day, which was the least abusable drug in history, but he was taking it anyway and he sure as hell wasn’t feeling any better. He was angry, and he didn’t think he was going to stop being angry anytime soon. He was tired, too.

Someone sat down across from him, and Pickles looked up mid-bite, his face twisting up in irritation. It wasn’t even someone he was in group with, and the idiot was just staring at him.

“You’re Pickles the Drummer, right?” the guy finally asked.

Pickles shoved a bite of food in his mouth and answered with his mouth full. “Yeah, and no, I ain’t givin’ out no autographs right now.”

Seriously, he didn’t come to this fancy ass place just to be locked up with _fans_ and shit. This was supposed to be a high-class kind of place. That one nighttime talk show host was in here-- Pickles had seen him in passing. Fucking star-struck assholes shouldn’t be allowed.

“I looked up to you a lot when I was younger. Back when you were in Snakes N’ Barrels.”

Pickles snorted. “Go figure, looked up to a junkie and now you’re hangin' out in a place like this.”

He couldn’t deal with this crap. He pushed away from the table before the guy could say anything else and went back to his room to wait for his next session. Maybe take a fucking nap. He was sure he’d feel better if he could just get some fucking sleep.

\---

_Pickles,_

_I never said that you don’t have a problem. I said that alcohol is not a problem for you, because until now, you haven’t hurt yourself or anyone else with it. However, as I said, you are addicted. You are dependent, are you not? If you weren’t, why would it be so awful for you to have to give it up like this?_

_Now, it’s becoming clear, you certainly do have a problem. You feel that you don’t have control over anything if you aren’t drinking. And for you, your being able to drink takes precedence over the image of your band._

_I didn’t want you to go there, especially not as your keeper, but as your manager I had to send you. Your being there hurts me, too. But I had no other choice, in my position. If I cannot keep Dethklok’s image stable, there is little else I can do for you._

_You have to understand. It isn’t just you who is powerless. As powerless as you are against alcohol, I am that powerless to help you. And I am powerless to get us out of this legal situation unless you do what you’re doing now. We’ve both done it. We’re both powerless, and we’ve admitted it, haven’t we? Aren’t you powerless in there? You have no control. And I have no control over what is done to you as long as you’re there._

_The second step is to believe that there is a power that can help us. It doesn’t help us by giving us back our power, but by restoring us to sanity._

_I don’t want you to be in there. But again, I have no choice. I think that if we looked at this in a different way, not like you being trapped, but as you succumbing to something, it would be easier to deal with._

_I’m going to try to see it that way. This whole thing- you being there, you feeling the way you feel now- it’s nothing that I can stop. But it happened for a reason, I think. And time is the only thing that can get you out. It will happen._

_Be strong. I know you feel alone and you hate me, but I feel for you._

_Love,  
Charles_

\---

“CHARLES!!” William accosted him in the hallway, just as he was on his way to discuss the month’s goals with the boys.

“Yes, William?” He was trying his best to sound patient.

“Why the FUCK did Pickles get to go to rehab?” William looked seriously angry.

Charles gave him a bit of a stare before answering. “He had to go because it was part of the deal--”

“No. No. That isn’t what I meant. I meant he drinks more than all of us and you’ve never said a thing about it before! Why did we just decided all of a sudden that he can’t handle it?”

“Well, William,” Charles cleared his throat, “like I was saying, it was part of a deal with--”

“You can’t fucking hear me, can you? I’m not asking why you sent him there. I’m asking why he’s there.” William was leaning against the wall with one shoulder, rubbing at his mustache.

“You, ah, aren’t making much sense there.”

“Yeah. No. See, I have a bit of a problem. Actually I have a lot of big problems.” He looked at Charles expectantly, a grimace forming.

“...And?” Charles cocked an eyebrow, still not sure what William was trying to say. He did have problems. That was clear to Charles, but it didn’t seem relevant.

“And I never get any help for them. So then Pickles doesn’t even have a problem and he goes on a fucking vacation to help him?”

Charles bit back a sigh and did what he was best at-- he pushed aside his anger and frustration at his boy’s close-minded selfishness. William had problems, but he never asked for help, so Charles had always assumed he just managed his less-than-desirable behaviors on his own.

“Pickles is not on a vacation. He’s in an intensive medical treatment facility and is constantly doing work to help him sort out this problem. All due respect, William, but it’s hardly your place to judge whether Pickles has a problem or not.” Saying that might have been cathartic if he weren’t skeptical of this… everything.

“He’s away at some swanky resort talking about his feelings! Probably gonna come back all happy and refreshed and…” He sighed. “I just... don’t you think I deserve something like that too?”

“What for, William? Do you feel like you have a problem with drinking or drugs?”

“Not any worse than Pickles’,” he snorted. “But oh, come on! You know, just... problems... dealing with... stuff…”

“You want to see a therapist again? I know Twinkletits didn’t work out so well, but--”

“Oh, nevermind.” William walked away, grumbling.

Charles watched him saunter off, finding himself thinking about Pickles again as soon as William was out of sight.

\---

_Hey Ofdensen I thought I was more important to you than the band's image but I guess that was fucking stupid of me. There's another piece of paper in here and it's a letter to Tony. Find his address and send it to him for me. I don't have access to his shit in here._

_\- - - - - -_

_Tony,_

_Hey dude, how's it going? I don't know what the tv and shit has been saying about me, or if you even keep up with what I'm doing anymore, but I'm stuck in fucking rehab right now..._

_Dude, you've been through all this shit before, right? More than once, right? How am I supposed to do this shit? I haven't had a drink in like over two weeks. I'm going out of my mind. I'm supposed to be over the withdrawal or some shit like that, but I can't do this, dude. I don't even want to. I don't know why I'm here and I'm fucking trapped and I can't leave._

_Tony, help me out here. Why did you get sober? I know everything went to shit with the band and all, I know it was all our fault with the way we used and shit, but the rest of you guys walked away from SNB and got clean. Was I doing it wrong?_

_I don't want to ruin another band like I did to SNB. Hit me up, dude._

_Pickles_


	4. Step 3

**STEP THREE: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of love as we understand love.**

_Pickles,_

_I forwarded your letter to Tony, and will forward any that he sends to Mordhaus to you._

_How are things holding up for you there? Do you have anyone there you can relate to or just talk to about things? I really hope that you’re, at the very least, making somewhat of a positive experience out of this. You don’t have to like it, as I’ve said a thousand times. But maybe, you can at least think about what I said in my last letter, and try to accept that you just have to trust time to get you through this. Don’t feel hopeless. Time is always passing. And there isn’t an hour that I don’t think of you._

_Mordhaus isn’t the same without you. Nathan seems much more irritable. He and Skwisgaar don’t really mesh without you to balance them out. There’s not much getting done with practice or writing. William mopes more than ever. The first few days, it was almost like something exciting and new for everyone. Now they just miss you. It shows._

_I would really like to know how you’re holding up. I know you're not having a great time. But I also know that every single doctor, nurse, and staff member there is there to help you get through this. It might not feel like it. It's not like having your gears around._

_But I miss you. And I hope you know that. I hope that that helps you get through this, too. As soon as your time there is up, I'll be there to retrieve you. You will come back to Mordhaus._

_For now, you are still working towards surrender. Think about it as if you're giving up to me._

_You're giving over your life as you know it so that you can get back to us._

_Love,  
Charles_

\---

The boys sat in the hot tub in silence, holding beers.

“Today on the Dethklok Minute!”

“Aww, can’t we change it? I hate this shit,” William said. Nathan elbowed him in the ribs. He was horribly curious about what the report would say today. It had been two weeks since Pickles entered rehab, and it was public knowledge. It had to be, because he had been sent there for publicity reasons.

“Looks like Dethklok have been partying a little too hard lately -- apparently, harder than ever!” A picture of Pickles, taken more than a year earlier, flashed on the screen. His cheeks were red and his hair disheveled, eyes slightly crossed. He looked dumb, and completely trashed, which of course had been the idea.

“Hej, amn't thems pictures from the last release parties?” Skwisgaar asked, “Why doesn’t they at least use more recents picture if they’s goings to talks about him in the news?

Nathan grunted. “He looks like shit.”

“Dethklok’s own Pickles the Drummer has finally gone and checked into rehab! Our sources say that he was admitted under the discretion of Dethklok’s manager, Charles Foster Ofdensen. Maybe the boss-man finally got fed up with his band partying all the time.”

“Boss-man! HAH! Whats ams that supposed to means?” Toki laughed stupidly through the tension. “He ain’ts the boss of us.”

“Toki, shut up,” Nathan muttered, eyes glued to the screen.

“He declined to give comment, but we do have to wonder if this whole rehab business has anything to do with this…”

The screen changed to a lo-fi video that looked like a home movie. It showed the outside of Dethklok’s last concert venue, in Zambezia. The sounds of the concert were somewhat audible from where the footage was shot, in addition to the cry of a large crowd, and the camera moved back and forth as if the filmer was headbanging. The motion suddenly stopped and the camera panned to the sky  in conjunction with a deafening low whine; a dangerously low airplane tore across the sky, followed by a flash of black and red machinery and a cry of “WOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

“Oh shit, wasn’t that--” William started, but Nathan shushed him. Without a doubt, it was Pickles on the hoverdrums.

“That was footage taken outside Dethklok’s last concert in Zambezia, Mozambique. Looks like Pickles might have been operating some heavy machinery in a less-than-sober state, am I right?”

Nathan finished his beer.

William was chuckling next to him. “Pickles sure fucked up that one, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up, Murderface,” said Nathan.

“We’ll try to get a closer look at Pickles’ rehab adventure tomorrow. For now, that’s the Dethklok Minute!”

Nathan reached for the remote and changed the channel. They sat staring at the TV for a few minutes, seemingly content to not say anything about what they’d just watched.

“I need another beer,” William said.


	5. Step 4

**STEP FOUR: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.**

_Ofdensen,_

_Haven't gotten shit back from Tony yet. Did you really send him my letter?? I don't care what the other guys are doing. They fucking wanted to send me away. They wanted to replace me. I'm doing this shit for THEM. Fuck them. Not surprising they can't make any progress writing without me. Nate just deletes everything if I ain't there to stop him._

_You want to know how I'm holding up in here? I can't even take a shit in this place without any fucking privacy. There's doctors breathing down my neck all the time, there ain't locks on shit. Fuck not being able to drink or get high, I can't even fucking eat when or what I want to!!_

_I'm supposed to be going through these twelve steps or whatever and none of them make any fuckin' sense. What the hell is a moral inventory of myself, dude?? I don't have any fucking morals. I tried to figure this shit out, but this is all bullshit and you know it._

_~~The guys are really not doing so good without me?~~ _

_I'm trying, dude. But I got to tell you, being sober is a worse low than I ever got from any drug._

_Love Pickles_

\---

He went to bed hungry for the third day in a row. There were just certain foods that he'd grown accustomed to enjoying with the flavour of a certain drink, and if he couldn't have the drink, he didn't want the food that went with it. There were no choices in this place. He wasn't in control. He ate what they served him or he didn't eat at all. Heh, just like being a teenager. But being a teenager and living with his shithead parents was still better than this.

If he had skipped dinner back then, at least he could still drink. Probably smoke a joint, too. And that was preferable, because at least then he didn't have to sit around a table with his fucking family.

Pickles laid awake, stomach growling and nothing to distract him from his own thoughts. Sleep was hard to come by without alcohol to take his hand and lead him to it.


	6. Step 5

**STEP FIVE: Admitted to our rock, to ourselves, and to another trustworthy friend the exact nature of our wrongs.**

_Nate,_

_I don't even know why the hell I'm sending this to you. You ain't going to take it seriously. You don't take nothing seriously, and that's cool, I don't expect you to. But I am so pissed off at you for backing Ofdensen sending me to this place, dude! It's fucking shit in here!!_

_But I'm trying to get clean for you assholes. Because you guys want me to or whatever. I haven't drank or had any drugs in like forever now. ~~Bet you couldn't do that.~~_

_As pissed off as I am at you, I guess I kind of get it. I fucked up with SNB. And you know much I loved my old band, dude. But we all went crazy. All of us got swept up by that lifestyle, you know? And shit fell apart. Sometimes I guess I think that you probably wouldn't have gotten so into drinking and shit if you hadn't lived with me back then, been influenced by the shit I did, you know?_

_I don't want my substance use to hurt Dethklok like it did to SNB. I love our stupid fucking band, dude. Call me gay if you want to, I don't give a shit. If this is what I got to do for DK, I guess I'll fucking do it._

_But I fucking hate it here so come bust me out, okay dude??_

_Pickles_

_PS at least send me some demos or some shit of what you're working on. I'm going crazy without my drums in here._

\---

Skwisgaar found Toki at the kitchen table, face down on his arms, a vodka bottle nearly empty in front of him. It was almost four in the afternoon, and Skwisgaar sneered. He hadn't been looking for Toki, but he wasn't really sure what he _was_ looking for. He was avoiding. Tensions were high in the Haus and he wanted no part of it.

He turned away from Toki, ready to leave him there, passed out. But as he passed through the threshold of the kitchen, his feet stilled and he sighed, frustrated, and he balled his hands into fists.

"Okay, fucks this," he said, and turned, heading straight toward Toki. Callused fingers clamped down roughly on Toki's shoulder, shaking him from sleep.

"...jeg rengjør den riktig this time!" Toki sputtered, head shooting up from the table, but his eyes focused on Skwisgaar and his face melted into a whole new expression.

"Gets up you's ass up, we got works to does," Skwisgaar insisted.

"What's you talksing about, Skwisgaar?"

"I's sicks of this mopes around all day, we does works on the music so when Pickle come home we’s ready to plays again," Skwisgaar said, pulling away from Toki and folding his arms stubbornly over his chest.

"But what’s you needs me for?" Toki asked, confused.

"Pickle ain't here to writes with me. So you's'll has to do," Skwisgaar scoffed. "Gets you's guitars."

\---

_Hey dumbass,_

_Jokes on you, I was fucking thrilled when Charles gave me this letter from you because I kind of fucking miss you a lot or something and I know you were fucking mad at me for all this. We still drink a lot here and stuff but its not the same without you, I feel like im the only one who knows how to hold his liquor or something because you used to be here to not be a total fucking mess with me when the other guy are falling over themselves._

_I guess im not really sorry at all for agreeing that you should go there though because like you said, I do. not. want you. to fuck this band up with your shit. And I didn’t think you could, I thought you were totally cool, but when there was that whole thing in Mozambique it got all confusing and fucked up and I was scared or something gay that like. Like I know we’ve all done dumb shit when were drunk before but the thing you did there it wasnt that it was dumb it was just fucking a lot of things happened. It was kinda brutal that all those planes crashed but we were up there on stage and you were off like in the sky miles away. It fucking scared me a lot ok? And it made me think that you might possibly have a drinking problem because you were really drunk when all that happened. And I thought if you have a problem then rehab would be good._

_Im glad you dont wanna hurt my band and your gonna do this for us. But I cant bust you out because your there for a reason. You gotta finish up what you started there._

_Skwisgaar and I havent really been doing much with writing shit lately, he can kind of overpower it when you’re not here to do your part. But if we get anything down I’ll send it._

_We need you to do this for your own good, and for the band. Just tough it out man, I know youve been through worse._

_Nathan_


	7. Step 6

**STEP SIX: Were entirely ready to let love back into our lives and have that help remove all of these defects of character.**

It wasn't that he'd forgotten about the show they had scheduled in Sydney, but for once, he was trying to avoid his obligations. Charles was at a loss at what to do. Canceling the gig at this point would not be in Dethklok's best interests, both on a financial level and regarding publicity. The stage design was unlike anything they'd used in the past and the construction had already commenced on it. Tickets for the show had sold out within the first hour; the boys didn't often play Australia, and they were only playing Sydney this time, so Dethklok fans from throughout the country, as well as many from Southeast Asia, had rushed to buy tickets for this rare event.

Even if Charles disregarded the massive loss from refunding all of those tickets and reneging on the construction, the media had nothing good to say about Dethklok since the incident in Mozambique. If they canceled the Sydney show- their first show since Zambezia- there would certainly be riots, at best. They just couldn't afford any more negative publicity right now.  
There was no doubt in Charles' mind that none of the rest of the boys had given a thought to what Pickles' absence meant for this gig, nor did they probably even remember at this point that such a show had been scheduled. And as much as Charles wished he could be as blissfully ignorant regarding this matter, it was his job to know and to deal with it. There was no way in hell he would suggest a live replacement for Pickles; not only was he sure that the rest of the band would be opposed, but more importantly, he couldn’t bring himself to do that to his boy. So he spoke with their developers, and he commanded that they build a drum machine unlike any other. Only the best for Dethklok.

Only the best to make sure that the show went off without a fucking hitch, make sure the boys were comfortable enough to play just as well as they did with Pickles around.

Above all, it was his job to make sure his boys were comfortable. Even if he was failing Pickles in that regard.

It only took a matter of days before the leaders of the development team presented him with the final product. The drum machine certainly looked _Dethklok_ , but he wasn't sure the boys would respond well to it. And why should they? They were all real musicians, no matter how much of a hard time they gave to William and Toki; a machine could only emulate so much.

Fortunately, there was a surefire way to get Dethklok on board.

Charles cursed himself internally as he cut himself out a few thin, white rails, knowing he was a damned traitor. Pickles had every reason to hate him right now, if only he knew. But Charles only dwelled on that briefly. After just a few minutes, he punched the record button, quickly and thankfully feeling high enough to get properly into character-- to properly push his personal feelings aside.

"Hey pals, it's me, Facebones! And let me introduce you to your newest robot pal and band member, X2P1158!"

\---

_Pickles,_

_First of all, how are you doing? I know you aren’t having fun in there, but I hope you’re at least getting by, awful as it sounds. I believe in you._

_You said you don’t care, but I have to correct you. Seems like Skwisgaar and Toki are trying to write some material. I know they’ll wait for you to come back to really finalize any songs. Personally, I thought you were right. I can’t believe they’re working. You’re usually the best about getting things done. But it is what it is. They’re not looking to replace you. We might have to use backing tracks in the upcoming show, but there won’t be any live replacement._

_I did indeed forward your letter to Tony, but haven’t heard back from him. Not sure what could be going on there, but you know I’ll keep you up to speed. Could be that he’s just lazy about opening his mail, you know, like you are._

_Regarding the “twelve steps,” they’re really something. I examined them a bit myself, and it seems that they get a bit repetitive. But I think there’s something to be said for repetition. They must be helping you through them, right? Things like the “moral inventory,” all of these lists, that’s somewhat material. It’s not total bullshit, you just have to get these things down on paper. You have morals. You live by some set of principles, do you not? Maybe you just don’t think  about them because they seem natural. But a person doesn’t get to your wealth or your age without at least some basis of rules governing how they live. They may not seem like rules to you, but they’re there._

_I understand that you’re feeling low. But that’s part of getting through this. That will all go away, but it takes work. You have to keep at it._

_Love,  
Charles_

He signed the letter and folded it neatly into the envelope. He wanted to get it off his desk and out of his sight as soon as possible, because he couldn’t stand to think about the shit he’d written. Keep at it? Moral inventories? It was total bullshit. But he couldn’t well say that to Pickles. Pickles was sober, and he was keeping at it, even though his letters made it sound like he was barely hanging by a thread.

It was this or let him rot in jail. Charles tried to imagine what it would be like with him in a correctional facility instead of a rehabilitation one. He’d be able to at least visit him in jail. The rehab center Pickles was in had a strict no visitation policy until eight weeks of sobriety. And even then, he needed to submit extensive paperwork because he wasn’t immediate family. He’d do it, of course, but the principle was disturbing. Would he have been better off in jail?

He could die in jail. He could die anywhere.

 _I could be killing him now,_ Charles thought.

He licked the envelope closed and sorted it with his other outbound mail.


	8. Step 7

**STEP SEVEN: Humbly admitted to our rock the exact nature of our shortcomings.**

_Ofdensen,_

_You want to know how I'm doing, dude? How I'm honestly feeling in here? I'll show you. Let me send you some shit I wrote my first week in here, and it ain't gotten much better. I'll throw it in the envelope with this. Yeah, this is me being honest, doing these fucking steps or whatever. I'm supposed to be opening up to people I love or something, I don't know. But it's great to hear that the band doesn't need me and shit. Can write without me, can just use backing tracks to play shows without me… That’s fucking bullshit by the way, you should cancel the fucking show! It ain’t DETHKLOK if I ain’t there, dude! God damn it._

_Whatever, talking about this shit ain't going to help. It's supposed to help, that's why I have to talk about shit all fucking day to a million doctors and regular jackoffs who have no fucking business being involved in my private life. I’m supposed to confess what I’ve done wrong or some shit. But it ain't going to help. I ain’t done nothing wrong. I just want to go home and live my life again._

_Pickles_

_\- - - - - -_

_[  A piece of sloppily folded paper is separate from the letter, creased and re-creased in so many different directions that it appears older than it actually is. ]_

_Hey Donny,_

_I really need to talk to you dude, I'm losing my fucking mind. Another band falling to fucking pieces, my fucking fault all over again. They're saying it's because of my drinking and shit, but it's not fucking true!! They're trying to kick me out, trying to get rid of me, replace me like fucking SNB did with some other sober douchebag. Everyone wants me to be fucking clean and sober, you know? Like just being me ain't good enough for them. But I don't even know who the hell I would be if I was sober. I don't even want to know. I ain’t never been sober, dude. Why should I fucking start now? At my age?? It's fucked up!_

_I don't want to do this! I haven't had a drink in like over three days now. Haven't taken anything either. I hate myself. I feel like shit and I fucking hate myself. This isn't me, dude. This isn't me! They want me to be someone who I'm not just to fucking please them and here I am, fucking doing it like they want me to. I don't know why. I just don't want to screw things up. I don't want them to throw me away in the fucking garbage just because I can't meet their qualifications. Like why can they get away with this shit when I can't?_

_You know how much I loved SNB and didn't want to let them go. You know how much it tore me up when we had to fucking break up. And that was my fault, right? It was my fault because I used and I drank and shit, but didn't we all? But it's the same with DK, we all drink and use and shit and it's still just my fault. Why am I the only one who is fucking it up if we're all doing it???_

_I wish I could talk to you, dude. I need to talk to you so bad. I feel like I'm fucking dying right now without booze, I need a drink more than ever. I fucking need YOU. I don't want to be sober for the rest of my life, dude, I can't do it. I wish you were with me. I was always good enough for you, you didn't try to replace me just because I drank and shit. You still liked me if I was high and shit dude._

_Honestly I'd fucking drop out of DK to have you back. But you're fucking gone. Like forever. Who fucking cares about all this sobriety shit? They don't care about me, they're going to replace me just like SNB did fuck those guys!! Fuck all of this, I'm getting the fuck out of here, I'm not doing this shit Donny. I'm going to fucking kill myself in here, I don't want to do this!_

_Fuck I miss you. I need your help dude._

_Love Pickles_

\---

Charles bent over the letter with his glasses off, his mouth a tight line. As soon as he saw the name at the top, he knew it wasn’t going to be an easy letter to read.

Donny. Donny Canfield. Formerly number three-three-zero-seven-nine, and Charles’ personal assistant for some time.

And before that, Pickles’... friend. Best friend. His rock.

Donny’s corpse was rotting somewhere at the base of a Mordland ravine. Accident during his messenger duties as Charles’ assistant-- as far as Pickles knew, at least.

Charles had done it to keep Pickles safe, of course. All of Charles’ personal assistants died horribly, and this was the least horrible way it could have happened.

But as Charles made way to the end of the letter, he questioned whether or not it had truly been in Pickles’ best interest to get rid of Donny.

_“Honestly I'd fucking drop out of DK to have you back.”_

No. Clearly he’d made the right decision.

He folded the letter back along its many crease lines, then dropped it in his shredder before taking out a fresh piece of stationery.

_Pickles,_

_I’m a bit confused about the beginning of your letter. There was no other paper in the envelope besides what you wrote to me. Maybe it was lost somewhere in the post, or censored by the rehab center. Or maybe you forgot it?_

_I’m sorry you’re feeling this way. As I’ve said, despite all of the trouble you’ve been having there, I need you to focus on the endgame. The process isn’t supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to hurt. You are supposed to be humiliated and belittled. You’re supposed to want it all to end._

_And then, you get out. You come home, and your life isn’t just back to how it’s always been. You’ve been shaped by all the things that rehab has made you go through. You aren’t dependent on chemicals to get through a day. I want to see you like that. I want you home, but I want you to let this help you._

_Please be strong. It’ll be worth it._

_Love,  
Charles_

He never really knew what he was trying to say in these letters. Anything to keep in touch. Anything to try to be there, because no matter how he tried he couldn’t bring Pickles home until he served his time. Some months of torture to save everything in the long run. It would be worth it for Charles. And since Pickles didn’t have anyone else to run off with now, it would be worth it for him too.

\---

As the boys watched the Facebones video about the X2P1158, William thought they were being a little too enthusiastic about it. He didn’t fucking trust robots. Hadn’t these idiots seen Terminator? Adding robots to a situation never ended up good. And this thing was following the pattern of “too good to be true.” A robot that was a better drummer than Pickles? Not likely. Had all that useless crap like Latin fusion and adult contemporary loaded onto it too, even though they just needed metal. And why did a robot have to drink? It was a waste of booze. He wasn’t buying it. And he was a bit appalled that Nathan and the others were so keen on it all. They’d be the first to go once that thing became sentient.

But in the tradition of wanting to blend in with his bandmates and be accepted as one of them... he wasn’t going to protest. At least not here and now.

The video ended and Charles left them to talk amongst themselves.

“He’s probably living like a fucking king!” William yelled, more out of wanting to contribute anything at all than having something to say.

“I thinks he ams probably better off theres anyways. Gets all kindsa cool thing we don’t gets here!” Toki said.

William frowned pointedly. Better off there? It probably wasn’t that bad, but it was strange to hear  anybody being complacent with Pickles being… gone. At first, not having Pickles there was interesting. Better, it was one less person William felt that he had to struggle to keep up with.  But it got old fast, not having Pickles there. It had basically become normal now. They all missed him, but no one cared to talk about it much.

And this robot thing? Eerie. Sort of sick. Would not fly smoothly with William Murderface in this band.

“Yeah, so uh, Nathan... you really think that robot thing is something huh?” William wanted to change the subject. And more importantly, he figured that Nathan would at least listen if he thought the band could be in danger.

“Hnn. ‘S pretty cool. Robots are kinda cool in general, and this one drinks booze. It’ll be like having another one of us around except you can turn it off and stuff.”

“So you’re not even a little bit, not in the least... y’know, worried about that self-destructo thing the video said?”

“Not reeeeaaally... I don’t think it’s really gonna happen. But if it did it’d be pretty brutal.” Nathan really did seem entirely unfazed.

There was a general consensus of agreement from the others.

“But,” Nathan spoke up again, “no way this thing can hold its liquor like Pickles can.”

“Uhh, Nathans? Maybes you forgets, but Pickle gots sends away for what's he can’t hold him's liquors,” Skwisgaar added.

“Yeah, well, this thing can’t... like... it can’t write music or anything, you know? I just think... don’t get attached to this thing or anything, okay guys? ‘Cause Pickles is probably doing okay and maybe he’ll come back soon,” Nathan said.

“I still don’t trust the robot,” William muttered.


	9. Step 8

**STEP EIGHT: Made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.**

"Today, you are all going to write down the names of the people you have hurt because of your addiction," the doctor said to the room. From the ten people sitting in the room before him came a few muffled grumbles of dissent, but in the end, they would all do it. They had to. They were all here for the same reason.

The doctor passed out paper to each of them, and Pickles stared down at his, face as blank as the sheet staring back at him.

"You may be reluctant to admit that your behaviours have hurt your loved ones, but if they hadn't, none of you would be where you are today. And because of that, you are making progress," the doctor explained. "So this is a learning step. You must admit who you have hurt in order to realise how harmful your addiction really is."

Defiant, Pickles scribbled _NOBODY_ across the top of the page. But even before the doctor strolled past, glancing down at their papers, he was starting to feel that maybe it wasn't true.

"Pickles, how can you think you haven't hurt anyone? You know why you're here. Your addiction directly caused the deaths of hundreds of people. You really think you didn't hurt them? Their families?"

Pickles' face twisted, but he was beyond arguing that. He would admit there were people he hurt, but it wasn't them. A technical malfunction was _not_ his fault, and he would fucking stand by that!

But he reconsidered his paper, and put the tip of his pencil to the sheet once more.

 _Tony,_ he wrote carefully. _Sammy. Bullets. Nathan._

He chewed on the metal part just under the eraser for a moment before adding, _Charles_. And then, as much as he didn't want to admit it, _Murderface. Toki._

He thought about his parents for a moment, because it seemed like he had to, but fuck them. If he had hurt them with his addiction, he was fucking glad to do it.

But there was one more name, one that he was reluctant to add to the list.

_Donny._

\---

_[ A thick envelope is delivered to Pickles' room, but the contents aren't letters. Unfolded, each piece of paper has on its face a picture drawn in a childish hand._

_First, what appears to be a picture of William, Nathan, Toki, and Skwisgaar sitting in the living room hot tub, smiling._

_Second, a picture of Skwisgaar pulling Toki's hair, followed by Toki standing on Skwisgaar's face, an Explorer in one hand._

_Third, a picture of a dark grey box sporting arms and legs, the words 'ROBOTS AMS SO COOLS' scrawled down the right side._

_Fourth, a drawing of an aircraft, more detailed than any of the previous pictures._

_Each page features a small heart with the name Toki scribbled underneath. ]_


	10. Step 9

**STEP NINE: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.**

Pickles stared at the phone for a solid five minutes, to the point where he was glaring at it, to the point where a nurse tapped him on the shoulder and told him that other people were waiting to use it as well. He snapped at her and batted her away, and nobody fucked with him because even in rehab, he was a fucking celebrity. He was paying enough to be in this shithole. He was paying a lot for this fucking torture.

The group assignment today was to make amends with people he'd hurt, but how the fuck was he supposed to make amends with people when he was locked away in this hellhole?!

He'd stared at the list he'd made for a while, considering who the fuck to even start with. He had no idea. Tony and Sammy and Bullets would have been easiest. Especially Sammy. He was never that bad to Tony, and Tony always just _got_ him. Bullets never really put up with this shit. But Sammy, he'd bullied Sammy a lot when he was high, when he was drinking too much. Sammy was too passive. Sammy let Pickles walk all over him.

To a degree, Sammy was a little like Toki.

But those were old wounds. So old now, none of it even mattered. Even if he tried to apologise to Sammy, it wouldn't matter. Sammy was over it. Sammy probably never would have known to even be mad at him for the shit Pickles had said and done.

Nathan and Charles? He'd said enough to them. He wasn't about to apologise.

Murderface and Toki were probably people who deserved an apology from him, but... it was just fucking complicated. Even if he tried, they wouldn't be receptive to him. At least not in any way that would be useful. Not useful to him, anyway.

And Donny... Well, that was impossible.

He realised that Skwisgaar hadn't made the list, and it made him consider the reasons why. His relationship with Skwisgaar was a little different than any he'd ever had in his life. They understood each other, even without words. Especially without words. They were the two who wrote Dethklok's music and they got along together through music. Language had never been a barrier for them, even when they were a hell of a lot younger and Skwisgaar's English was a hell of a lot worse.

He got along with Skwisgaar so well that he never considered the fact that he may have ever hurt him with his addictions.

So, Pickles took a deep breath and picked up the phone. The numbers to each of their Dethphones were the same up until the last number. Skwisgaar was number three.

The phone rang six times before Skwisgaar picked up.

"Hallå," Skwisgaar said, sounding like he'd been either drinking or fucking. Potentially both.

"Heyyyy, Skwisgaar," Pickles hedged, his eyebrows knit together.

"Pickle? Ams that yous?"

"Yeah..."

"You gets out of rehabs already?" Skwisgaar sounded excited, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. Dude didn’t get excited about much.

"Nah, dude." Pickles took a deep breath. "Look, I'm just callin' you 'cause I... uh... Look. Did I ever, uh, hurt you? You know, 'cause of my drinkin' and all that crap?"

There was a long silence on the other end, to the point where Pickles wondered if maybe Skwisgaar had hung up.

"Pickle, why's you ask to me this?" Skwisgaar finally asked.

"'Cause, dude, I'm supposed to like..." Pickles took a deep breath, "apologise. You know, for hurting people I, uh. Care about. Or whatever. With my addiction and shit."

"Okej. Pickle?"

"Yeah?"

"I ams going to pretends you doesn't ask to me this question, alrights?"

Pickles let out a hollow, shaky laugh, and fuck, it felt like it had been ages since he’d gotten to laugh. "Yeah, dude. That's fine."


	11. Step 10

**STEP TEN: Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.**

_Pickles,_

_Hey man, I went to the store today and I saw you on the cover of some magazine. I guess that's not that weird, huh, you're all over the place anymore. Have been forever, man. Like a little fuckin red firecracker, just took off like that. But it was totally about you going to rehab and shit, so I got the magazine. Actually, I didn't pay for it, I just stuck it in my jacket... but you know, hey, gotta do what you gotta do, right man? Don't think you guys are profiting off this one anyway..._

_Anyway, I'm sending you the article with this letter. Thought you might want to know what they're saying about you, man._

_You asked why I quit and stuff, but honestly dude, my reasons can't be your reasons... I was just getting really tired of living that way, man. And when the money ran out, living that extravagantly got a little harder. I miss what we had, the four of us. But this was just the path I had to take._

_I don't know, man. But I think you got enough of a reason to get sober, too. So go for it. You know. Let me know how it goes.  
     
Love,  
Tony_

\- - - - - -

[ _A magazine article is attached to the letter, messily torn by hand from the binding._ ]

"This month's cover story once again revolves around international multi-crillionaire band, Dethklok. Lawsuits have been piling up against drummer, Pickles, after an incident during a concert in Zambezia last month. The drummer has been found directly responsible for hundreds of deaths after operating a piece of stage equipment heavily under the influence of alcohol and prescription drugs."

[ _An unauthorized photograph of Pickles immediately following the accident. Paramedics are on the scene._ ]

"Band manager Charles Ofdensen has made several public appearances since the incident in a miserable attempt to clear Pickles' name, but it's clear that simply apologizing just isn't enough. Pickles is now working toward sobriety at a ritzy rehabilitation clinic in northern California. No statement has been released yet on his progress, but with his track record, the future seems uncertain. Could Pickles' increasing substance abuse mean the end of Dethklok?"

[ _An older image of Pickles from a failed publicity stunt led by cultist Liz Bane. Pickles is clearly intoxicated, possibly unaware of where he is._ ]

"Some fans will recall glam rock band, Snakes N' Barrels, led by a much younger Pickles, long before his days of sitting behind the drum kit. They were a band who once swept the nation by storm much in the same way as Dethklok today. However, substance abuse tore the young rockers apart, and in 1989 Snakes N' Barrels fell to pieces."

[ _A photograph of Snakes N' Barrels, September of 1989. The band appears haggard and hostile. Their disbandment was announced only hours prior._ ]

"Although it seems that most of the former members of Snakes N' Barrels have learned their lessons and gotten clean as we learned recently from former rhythm guitarist, Snizzy-Snazz Bullets following a show with his new project, Tremor, Pickles' addictions seems only to be growing and leading him down a dark road of despair. Will Pickles' bad behaviour destroy Dethklok like it destroyed Snakes N' Barrels? Or will the band take this cue to finally replace their drummer? No talks of auditions yet, but I'd keep my ears peeled if I were you, fans-- if you're lucky, you may just get the chance to try out as the newest member of Dethklok!"


	12. Step 11

**STEP ELEVEN: Sought through sobriety and meditation to improve our conscious contact with ourselves.**

The words Tony had written were little help to him, and somehow that suddenly made sense, as if nothing Tony had ever done had ever helped him. Maybe it hadn't. Maybe he was giving Tony too much credit for a lot of things in his life. But the article that had been tucked in with the letter was something else entirely.

The pictures there were included for shock value. He'd been in the media's spotlight long enough to know that. They weren't flattering-- they weren't meant to be. It didn't bother him, none of them except the picture from Snakes N' Barrels' disbandment. And even that only burned mildly; it had been twenty years since then. He still loved his old band, but he knew they were history, no matter how eagerly he jumped at a chance to reunite.

It wasn't the pictures that bothered him. But talk of Dethklok replacing him was another matter altogether. Auditions? Hiring a fucking _fan_?! The guys wouldn't do that to him, right?

Pickles couldn't help but think, though, about how eager they all were to get rid of him, to send him away. They wanted him gone. And he didn't have access to the media in here, nothing except for what people told him. If Dethklok was looking for a replacement for him, it could be all over the news, and he wouldn't have any idea unless anyone told him. They'd taken his Dethphone away, didn't even have his Dethklok Minute app to fill him in on what his bandmates were doing.

Just their word.

Nathan said he missed him, Skwisgaar said he hadn't hurt them.

But his bandmates might be replacing him anyway.

That night, Pickles sat against his headboard with his head in his hands, trying to convince himself that they would never replace him, but what evidence did he have that they wouldn't? They wanted him gone. They wanted him _gone_. He was the co-founder of the band; getting Dethklok off the ground in the first place was largely due to his plans and knowledge of the industry! But they had no use for him anymore.

Just like Snakes N' Barrels.

It was late, maybe the middle of the night when he pulled himself out of bed and went over to the small desk on the side of his room. Pickles opened the folder he had to take with him every day to group therapy and leafed through the pages until he found what he was looking for, lost in the back of the sea of papers. He pulled the list of steps out that he'd mostly disregarded until this point, laid them flat at the desk, and sat down and stared at them. And he pondered them.

And he resolved that he'd start doing better tomorrow.

Dethklok couldn't replace him. Pickles wouldn't let them.

He realised at that moment that he was craving a cigarette more than a drink.

\---

_Hey Pickles,_

_Charles said I should send you stuff weve been working on because we're supposed to keep you in the loop or something like that even though your not even here to play the gig we have coming up soon and shit. That doesn’t matter I guess though because we arent gonna play this song then anyway its just kind of something we put together lately. Skwisgaar wrote it I guess. Toki keeps saying he helped but whatever. You braught your CD player right? Maybe I should send one with this… Nah Im sure you braught one._

_Hurry up and get done with your rehab and shit because playing a gig without you is bullshit and I dont want to have to do it more than once you idiot._

_Nathan_


	13. Step 12

**STEP TWELVE: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.**

Nightmares were keeping him awake. Those fuckers made him talk about Seth, made him dredge up and puke out all those memories that alcohol and drugs had helped him keep down all these years. Now he couldn’t sleep and there was nothing to help him, nothing to dull the pain, nothing to hide him from his fears. Not even anything to take the edge off.

He didn’t want to think anymore. Pickles went over to his desk and switched on the lamp, pulling his folder out again, like maybe some of the crap they were trying to teach him here would actually help with the pain they were intentionally inflicting upon him.

But when he moved the folder, he found underneath it the manila envelope he’d gotten from Nate a few days before. He hadn’t had time to listen to the attached CD and then he’d forgotten all about it. He grabbed the old walkman from his bag and threw the CD inside. The beginning of the track had a little snippet of Murderface saying something, quickly cut off by Nathan counting down, and despite himself, Pickles grinned to hear their voices. Even though he was missing out on everything going on back home.

But as soon as the song started, there was something wrong, something that sent panic spiking through his chest like a bullet. There were drums to this, and maybe it made sense, like they wouldn’t have been able to record all this without Knubbler, right? He could have easily just thrown together a MIDI and slapped a virtual kit overtop. Yeah, that was probably it.

But even so, Pickles had a sinking feeling in his gut, and a voice in his head whispered to him, _They don’t need you. They never needed you._

\---

_Ofdensen,_

_Hey, dude. I think I’m going to be able to come home soon. Hey, sorry about all the shit I talked, you know? Shit’s been rough. I guess I got to the root of my problems or whatever. And it’s still hard to think about shit without even the prospect of a fucking drink, you know? But I’ve been sober for 11 weeks now, so… I don’t know, why ruin it now, you know? ~~Even if I can’t get over th~~ This is what those guys want..._

_I got to get home so I can make music again, dude. I’m doing really good, like hoping that I’ll be able to come home in time for that gig. I do NOT want those guys doing a show without me, dude._

_My therapist said I’m doing good, too. Like he doesn’t see how I’d benefit from being stuck in inpatient like this for much longer. So…_

_You’re going to come pick me up, right? You promised, dude._

_Love Pickles_

When Charles saw the familiarly sized envelope with its same old scrawl, he was relieved. The rest of his mail was pushed aside, and he ripped the letter’s seam with a swipe of his letter-opener, anxious to see what sort of update Pickles had for him. They were prepared to start intensive preparations for the Australia concert the next day, and the idea of doing that without Pickles was bizarre.

It had been eleven weeks. Twelve was usually the maximum stay recommended. Charles had cherished each of the communications they’d had, but they’d been far between. It couldn’t really be helped. Pickles didn’t want to write him most of the time he was there, because of thing he’d said, or perhaps just because he didn’t want to tell Charles about what he was doing.

There was something to be said for their written communication, as opposed to what they had in person. Charles liked letters. He could say his full piece with all of the brutal honesty that was needed, but had enough time and space to make it sound less like an attack. As much as he liked it, he could tell that Pickles wasn’t as fond. His letters always seemed too short, written in his exact manner of speaking but somehow lacking. They demanded gesture and presence.

Charles’ eyes landed on _“come home soon,”_ and his heart lept. While scanning the rest of the letter, he picked up his desk phone and demanded a bit too harshly to be connected to the front desk of the rehab center.

“Hello. I’m calling on behalf of Pickles-- yes, I’m his, ah, guardian. I’d appreciate if you could tell me when it’s estimated he’ll be released.”

“Pickles? Let’s see, we have his date of release listed here as the 23rd. I believe that’s this Saturday.”

It was Thursday. Charles felt a wave of emotions-- primarily, something like relief. He’d known, rationally, this whole time that Pickles wouldn’t be gone forever, but until now it seemed as if he would be. But he was definitely coming back now. The day after tomorrow.

He was worried, too, almost afraid. What had happened to Pickles wasn’t fair, and it was his responsibility. Charles was the one who decided not to make rules about the boys drinking before shows. Charles was the one who ordered the hoverdrum upgrade, and who had signed off on the safety inspections. Charles was the one commanding the klokateers who were controlling the hoverdrums’ override, and the ones in contact with local air traffic authorities. This was all on him. Did Pickles realize that? How angry was he?

Since when were Charles’ emotions under such influence from Pickles? He’d always been the one in control. As evidenced.

“Sir?” the phone spoke to him. He’d been silent for a minute in his thoughts.

“Ah, yes, thanks for the update. Say, I have a favor to ask you... what’s your name?”

“I’m Alicia, but, um... we’re not exactly in the business of favors here. This is a rehabilitation facility.” She sounded skeptical.

“Is there any flexibility on that release date, Alicia?”

“I’m afraid that our policies are very strict--”

“For Pickles the Drummer, are they that strict?” This was Dethklok. Did they not have a little leverage?

“Look, most of our patients are celebrities. We don’t make exceptions.”

“Have you ever been in rehab, Alicia?” Charles was set now. He wanted Pickles back today. Pickles needed to come back, get into rehearsals for their show, get back where he belonged. It had been long enough.

“I don’t like to discuss my personal life with strangers, sir. Good day.”

“Wait. This is Charles Ofdensen, CFO of Dethklok.”

She sighed. “And? I just told you, everyone here is a celebrity. Everyone here is just another entitled priss. For the last time, Mr. Ofdensen, CFO of Dethklok, good day.”

Click. The call ended.

Charles set the phone down and grumbled. Then, he picked it back up and asked to be reconnected.

“Hello, Alicia.”

“You again?” Her voice was a snarl.

“Sorry for the trouble, but could I please speak to Pickles?” He had to talk to him, and there was no point sending a letter now.

“Mmmhmm. Just wait a sec.” There was a rustling sound and some voices, then a familiar one.

“Dude?” It was Pickles, and he sounded incredibly tired, but it was him. Charles hadn’t heard his voice in so long.

“Pickles. You’re getting out this Saturday.” Charles remained all-business, of course.

“I know, dude, they told me just now.” He sounded vaguely happy, but above all, exhausted, like he’d just been woken up. It was late afternoon, though.

“I’m coming to get you.”

“You are?” Pickles asked, and the disbelief in his voice almost stung. Almost, until Charles reminded himself that this had all been his fault.

“Yes, I am, Pickles. I told you I would.”

“Well, fuck you.” His energy seemed to come back all at once. “You shoulda come’n got me sooner. I wanna fuckin’ go home already! Get me the fuck out of this shithole, dude.”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry. You’re coming home. I’ll be there.”


End file.
